


a little at a time

by YourPalYourBuddy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Concussions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Short & Sweet, bc im predictable, this is post that awful check in year 1, we don't know for sure so it could be accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 12:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20582339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourPalYourBuddy/pseuds/YourPalYourBuddy
Summary: Jack lets Shitty skate them both backward, helping only barely. Just enough for them to make any kind of progress. He catches the defenseman’s eye briefly and viciously imagines decking him and it’s so sudden and satisfying an image that he’d do it, would be on him in an instant, if Shitty hadn’t tightened his grip on his shoulders.Bittle still isn’t moving.It was Jack’s idea.It’s a dirty hit.__________________Pre Zimbits after the check in Year 1. Jack's POV :)





	a little at a time

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted "Zimbits and on the edge of consciousness" by the lovely hellosleepdeprivation :)

________________________

It’s a dirty hit. 

Jack sees it happen just before it does. A lowered shoulder. Bittle airborne and crying out. His helmet bouncing, cracking and empty, across the ice. 

It takes no time and all the time in the world. Bittle hits the ice milliseconds after Jack’s shot hits the back of the net and it feels like an age before the referee blows the whistle. He’s over before he even realizes it, pushing the defenseman out of the way and shaking off his gloves to — check his pulse? Check for blood? His hands freeze before touching Bittle, immediately aware of noises behind him telling them all to give Bittle air. 

Their trainers dart past him.

“Jack,” Shitty says quietly, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. It’s anchoring. “C’mon, brah.”

Jack lets Shitty skate them both backward, helping only barely. Just enough for them to make any kind of progress. He catches the defenseman’s eye briefly and viciously imagines decking him and it’s so sudden and satisfying an image that he’d do it, would be on him in an instant, if Shitty hadn’t tightened his grip on his shoulders.

Bittle still isn’t moving. 

It was Jack’s idea.

It’s a dirty hit.

____________

Jack paces the hallway outside the trainer’s room.  _ I’ve got your back, _ he’d said. What a stupid thing to say. Like there was any way he’d be able to stop that hit while worrying about their playoff spot. 

Selfish. The word echoes off the walls with every footstep.

He stops. Leans against a wall. 

At least it happened on home ice. It’s cold comfort, but they have good resources here. He knows all the trainers by now, and they’ve all seen worse than the aftermath of a bad check. At least it happened on a rainy day; they all drove, even though ordinarily it wouldn’t be much of a walk. 

“You sure you don’t want us to stay?” Lardo had asked. Shitty, toweling off his hair from the shower, had made a face like  _ just ask and we will. _

Jack had said, “Get some sleep.” He’d wanted to say, “He’s gonna be okay, right?” Shitty had hugged him as if he’d said it anyway.

The waiting is the worst part. He’s always been better with things he can shape, when he can soothe and alleviate problems. When he can be useful. . He’s called Bittle’s parents. He’s helped fill out the accident report. He’s packed Bittle’s gear and gotten it loaded in his truck. Now? There’s nothing else he can do.

The trainer’s door swings open, and he straightens. Cate peers out. “Thought you’d still be here,” she says levelly. “He’s conscious. Pretty foggy. Hall and Murray are both in here too, if you want to talk to them.”

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. He clears his throat. “Yeah, I would.”

He follows her into the room and down a row of beds separated by curtains until they get to the very end, where a very bleary-looking Bittle is sitting halfway up listening to Hall talk about concussion protocol. Jack sits next to Murray. Bittle squints at him. Jack tries for a smile, but it breaks on his lips. Selfish, his chair squeaks.

“Hey, Bittle,” Jack says. There’s a lump in his throat that’s been growing since the ref’s whistle. He can almost taste it now. 

“Jack,” Bittle says, slurring somewhat. He gestures to Hall, or tries to, Jack thinks; it sort of looks like Bittle’s arm lost the message halfway through. “S’telling me I can’t watch Beyoncé on YouTube anymore.”

Jack laughs a little helplessly. “Just in the meantime,” Hall’s saying, and Jack’s watching the way Bittle frowns at that too. “Give it a few weeks, and then maybe a little at a time.”

“Bet we can get Holster to act them out,” Jack says. 

He never thought he’d get to know Bittle’s different smiles. Bittle never really smiled at him after the first week of practice, aside from now and then when they bumped gloves after a good play. This one doesn’t look like any he’s seen before. It’s fuzzy and tired and dearly, deeply sad. He doesn’t know how to make it go away.

Bittle says, “That’d be nice,” and he sounds as if it’d be anything but.

Hall finishes his speech and Cate comes back to recheck Bittle’s vitals, making notes on a screen of some sort. Bittle shakes his head when she asks if he wants any meds, but the movement makes him wince, and she just frowns and hands him a few pills and a cup of water. He swallows them without complaining.

“That just leaves….” She scans her screen. “Do you have a roommate? Anyone to check in on you tonight?”

Bittle’s voice comes as a whisper. “He’s home for the weekend. Sister’s getting engaged.”

Cate purses her lips, scanning Hall, Murray, and Jack. Jack knows what she’s going to ask before she asks it.

“Would you rather stay at the Haus,” Jack asks, “or your dorm?”

“Dorm,” Bittle whispers. 

Jack nods. 

Cate signs them out, and they bundle into Jack’s truck.

____________

The dorms are smaller than he remembers. Bittle’s room is decorated nicely — there are posters of people who must be singers, probably, that Jack doesn’t recognize — and his game pucks are on the bookshelf behind his bed. Jack snags a book at random and waits in a chair next to the bed while Bittle showers. He’s read fifteen pages and absorbed nothing by the time Bittle shuffles back in the room. 

Bittle stops dead in the doorway. “You’re still here.”

And Jack’s earned that, he has. He’s been — he thinks Shitty called him “a goddamn shithead” a few weeks ago, after a particularly grueling practice that left him snarling and everyone else sore. Bittle’s surprise hurts, but he deserves that.

“Doctor’s orders,” Jack says. Bittle nods once and turns his back a little more than necessary to hang up his towel. 

Jack thinks he’s shaking somewhat. He can’t tell if it’s from the hit, or the shower — he should’ve maybe closed the window, last thing Bittle needs is a cold on top of his concussion — or the fact of Jack here in his space. That lump from before feels more like a rock than anything.

“Bittle,” he says, and Bittle turns around immediately. His eyes are red.  _ Crying, _ Jack’s brain supplies helpfully. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Bittle’s voice is thin. 

“I said I’d have your back, and I didn’t. You said—” Bittle’s shoulders shake more violently and Jack’s on his feet in an instant. He doesn’t know what to do. If it were Shitty, or Lards— 

He opens his arms hesitantly. 

Bittle’s bottom lip trembles. He stares Jack down, eyebrows in a hard line, and Jack’s just started putting his arms down when Bittle wipes his eyes and crashes into him. Jack holds him tight while he cries.

____________

“I’ll do better,” Jack whispers a few hours later. Bittle had glared at him until he’d gotten in bed next to him, deaf to his offers to sleep in the chair. He’s glad he took him up on it now; Bittle’s warm weight against his chest. And maybe he should feel weird about how easy it is to hold him like this, but it’s better than Bittle hating him. He probably deserves that too. 

Bittle shifts in his sleep and Jack pauses, words hovering on his lips. He settles. Jack exhales.

“I’ll do better,” he whispers, addressing that cowlick Bittle claims to hate but tugs on whenever it’s drooping. “I’ve got your back. I promise.”

“Jack?”

His name rumbles against his chest. He hadn’t thought Bittle was still awake; he’s glad it’s dark, or he’d probably see how hard Jack’s blushing. “Yeah?”

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

Bittle sighs. “I’m not mad at you. You know that, right?”

His words break on Jack like a slapshot at point blank range.

“Bittle—”

Bittle shakes his head. “It was a good play,” he says quietly. “We won, right? Then that’s all that matters.”

“We did,” Jack says.

Someday he’ll find the words to tell him that winning tonight was the last thing that mattered. He thinks this — Bitty sleepy and concussed but  _ okay, _ breathing, not seriously hurt and cramped next to Jack in a tiny dorm bed — this must be up there.  A little at a time, Hall had said. He’ll find the words.

“So go to sleep,” Bitty mumbles. He pulls Jack’s arms tighter around him. 

“Okay,” Jack whispers. “Sorry.”

He thinks Bitty elbows him at that. It’s hard to tell.

Bitty drifts off first. Jack holds him, brushing back his hair, until he falls asleep too.

________________________

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Lemme know what you think here or [hit me up on Tumblr! :)](http://ivecarvedawoodenheart.tumblr.com)


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